


Mourning Him

by Danny (DannyC)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger to Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prisoner of War, Sickness, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DannyC/pseuds/Danny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes has mourned Steve Rogers more times than any man should have to mourn another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Him

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to warn you right now that this does not have a happy ending. Please observe the tags, for there are several possible triggers in this drabble. 
> 
> Thank you to brooklyncap and notacyclonefan on tumblr, as well as my little sister, whom I had to pay five dollars to read over this for me.  
> A special thank you also goes to dontbecooler here and on tumblr, for all of the wonderful support they give me, and for being my amazing beta reader. You give me so much confidence, I can't even word. :3
> 
> If you have any ideas for other drabbles or fics, hit me up; I'm sure I'd love to write it. Enjoy, let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has mourned Steve Rogers more times than any man should have to mourn another.

The first time Bucky had to mourn Steve was just after they’d met.

Their friendship had been fast-forming, and soon the two of them were inseparable. One day though, Steve didn’t look so good. The two of them stayed inside like most days, but Steve didn’t really feel like drawing much, or playing cards or make-believe, so they just laid in the blond’s bed together instead, Bucky with his back against the wall and Steve curled up beside him, shivering a little under the sheets.

A few days later, and the doctors were telling them that Steve wouldn’t make it through the night. Bucky refused to believe it, was all firm, determined smiles and “No sir, you’re wrong.” Steve Rogers was a fighter. He always got back up, just like his Ma before him. Steve was gonna be just fine, you wait an’ see. You just wait and see.

Even with all his big talk, Bucky knew when things were bad. This... this was bad. Steve looked smaller and more pale than usual as he lay on his bed, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His eyes were sunken in and shadowed, and hadn’t opened again since that first day he’d fallen ill. He looked... Bucky hated to think it, but he looked dead already. It was scary, scarier than anything Bucky had ever witnessed before, and left him feeling weak and helpless, hopeless. He was supposed to protect Steve, keep him safe and happy, fight for him. But... how could you fight sickness?

So, Bucky had stood firm and stayed strong by Steve’s side, all the way until that last night. He waited until everyone else had left, gone off to bed or fallen asleep before he crawled into bed beside Steve, holding him close to his chest. Bucky let his eyes close and cuddled in close to the blond, the possibility of catching whatever Steve had be damned. He held the smaller boy right up against him, burying his face in dirty blond hair and breathing Steve in before he started talking.

"You ‘member when we first met, an’ I saved you from those boys beatin’ you up in the alley?" Bucky murmured quietly, breathing the words into Steve’s hair, knowing full well he was unconscious but hoping he could hear him anyway. "I chased ‘em off, and you remember what you did? Stood up, all bloody and dirty, and you put up your fists, like you were gonna fight me next. I just saved you, and you wanted to fight me," he said, smiling against blond locks. "And I just kinda laughed, but Stevie, I swear I wasn’t laughing at you. Not ‘cause I didn’t think you could whoop me, but because... I don’t know," he admitted quietly, the young boy trying to think up how to explain his reasoning, his feelings that day. 

"I just thought it was kinda funny. You were already hurting, and I’d just got those bigger kids to leave ya alone, but you just got right back up like it was nothin’. Like you weren’t bleeding and all messy from a fight, or like you weren’t havin’ a little bit’a trouble standing. You just got back up and looked at me like... like you coulda done that all day," Bucky mused with a bit of a chuckle, quoting the words he’d heard Steve say plenty of times since that first meeting. “I just... I never met another person with so much fight, Stevie. That’s why I know you’re gonna be okay, ‘cause you never give up. You just… you always get back up.

"But... If... I mean, if you just—" Bucky had to pause, his voice thick with tears, cracking as he tried his best to hold himself together, "If you just wanna rest now, that’s okay too. I ain’t gonna be mad at you if you wanna stay down this time, Stevie. Outta everybody, I think you deserve to rest the most," the boy murmured. He sniffled, drawing in a shaky breath before whispering, "I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, Steve. Even if this is where it stops."

 

The next time Bucky mourns for Steve, he’s locked in a cell.

It’s been a while since they found him, the KGB, but he isn’t sure just how long. He was in and out of consciousness for long enough in the beginning that he had no real way to judge how much time he’d lost, so he decided he would start new, begin counting the days afresh. It wouldn’t give him a very accurate reading on how long he’d been a prisoner of war [again], but it was better than nothing, right? The only problem was that he didn’t have anything to base that on, either. Bucky’s cell had no windows. He wasn’t visited on a regular schedule, as far as he could tell. He wasn’t even fed regularly. The best way to tell time, he realized, was to track the growth of his hair. They didn’t bother to cut it, and it was getting longer and longer, telling him that it had been a while since he’d fallen from that train and been dragged here, to God only knew where.

That was alright though. Steve was coming. Steve and the Commandos, the whole lot of them, they’d all come, and everything would be fine again. Just... just swell. Bucky would have to go home since he was missing an arm and had been a POW for a second time in his few years in the army, and he was pretty certain no amount of arguing from himself or Captain America was going to change that. He didn’t know what he was going to do when they sent him back to Brooklyn though; he was a soldier now, a man with blood on his hands and sin in his heart, and there was no going back. Something had changed in him since he’d been shipped out, and he wasn’t sure he was the civilian type anymore. He knew he wasn’t.

Even so, Brooklyn sounded a whole helluva lot better than what they had started doing to him here.

He was starting to have these dreams. Bucky knew, okay? He knew these bastards were breaking him down, slowly but surely. He knew they were getting to him, that he was wrong and messed up and not right anymore. He knew he wasn’t Bucky Barnes from Brooklyn, or Sergeant Barnes from the Howling Commandos. He wasn’t the same man that had picked up Steve Rogers’ shield and fallen from a train for it. He knew that, and the dreams only made it worse.

It would be after another round of whatever the Russians did to him that day, whatever kind of tortures they had planned up, and they had some very creative minds. After they beat him or fucked him or whatever else, Bucky would slip off into unconsciousness, just a little too late to save him from what was happening to him. He would close his eyes and let the darkness finally take him, and then… Steve would be there.

Steve, bright and shining and perfect like the day they’d met, or the first time Bucky had come home drunk, or when Steve had rescued him from the first table and held him on bad days during the war. Perfect, perfect Steve. He would give Bucky that smile, _that_ one, the relieved smile that said “There you are,” and “I found you,” all at once, promising safety and comfort and warmth and _home_. He’d smile, and step closer, almost within arm’s reach of Bucky’s broken and abused body, then… stop.

That smile slipped away and turned wrong, a look Steve never gave to him, never really gave anybody that Bucky had seen. Utter disappointment, worse still, disgust. Steve stared down at him, his face twisted up with a look Bucky knew he deserved. Still, maybe... maybe he could salvage this, just get Steve to take him home. “Steve— Stevie, you found me,” he breathed, “I knew you’d come,” he said, offering a broken smile.

Steve just shook his head. “Bucky... why’d you do it? Why’d you tell them, Buck? I thought... I thought I could trust you,” Steve said, that terrible look still on his face as he looked down at the brunette, watched as Bucky tried desperately to push himself off of the floor. He still couldn’t make his left arm move, and his right was hurt badly enough that he couldn’t put weight on it. He couldn’t lift himself up, so he just reached out, eyes begging, pleading with Steve to help him.

"Steve, no, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to tell them anything, I swear. I tried so hard," Bucky promised, feeling cold wash over him. Steve was upset, and rightly so. Bucky was weak, so fucking weak… he screamed and begged and told them what they asked when things got to be too much. He was weak, he had broken, and he deserved the way Steve was looking at him. What was more, the things they had done to him... he couldn’t blame Steve for the disgust, either. "Please Steve, you... You would’ve done it too," Bucky claimed, grasping for straws now.

"No, I wouldn’t," Steve answered simply, looking sad now as he glanced Bucky over one last time. With a soft sigh, Steve would just shake his head again, turning and walking out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Bucky alone once more.

Bucky couldn’t make the dreams stop. Maybe he knew he didn’t deserve for them to stop. 

Eventually, he stopped hoping Steve was coming for him, stopped hoping his Commandos were coming. Maybe they were off winning the war, maybe they’d gone home by now. Bucky didn’t know. He knew they weren’t coming, that no one was coming, but at least Steve was safe and happy. Maybe he hadn’t failed after all.

And then they showed him the paper. It was American, a newspaper with big, black, ugly headlines. No. No, that wasn’t... that couldn’t be right. Bucky read it again and again as the Russians laughed, watching as he paled more and more each time, his eyes wide. They sneered at him, shouting things in Russian when he scrambled to the corner of his room and retched, the idea of Steve… of his plane... no.

He didn’t believe it. Bucky didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. No. Steve was home, he was safe, he was happy. Everything was alright. Steve was alright. And maybe... maybe they were coming for him after all. Maybe they were looking for him. Maybe that’s why the KGB bastards had made up a fake front page story about Steve dying, because he was close. That thought sustained Bucky for a few days.

By the time they showed him the paper telling that the war had ended, he wasn’t really Bucky anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

"You’re a… you’re a fuckin’ idiot, know that?" Bucky asked Steve, letting out a broken huff of laughter. "You really are. Always have been, I’m thinkin’. What other reasoning is there for it? I mean, ninety pounds fucking wet, and you think it’s a good idea to go get yourself in fights all over Brooklyn, I always gotta get your ass outta trouble... Then you run off and join the war? Let ‘em pump you full’a God only knows what, turn you into... into some kinda _machine_ , Stevie. And all I ever wanted was to keep you home and safe and happy and—"

Bucky had to stop talking for a minute, his lips pursing together as he swallowed past the growing lump in his throat, blinking back his tears. He won’t cry, no. Steve never cries, so Bucky won’t either. “Jesus, Steve. It was my _job_ , you know that? It was my... my fuckin’ job. I’m real sorry, pal...” Bucky murmured quietly.

It’s like a scene straight from their childhood, one Bucky remembers clearly, even through the hazy confusion constantly clouding his mind. They were, what? Seven, eight years old? Steve wasn’t supposed to last the night. The doctors said it was bad, real bad, and Bucky had climbed into bed with Steve just like he was doing now. Steve was bigger now, didn’t fit perfectly against his body this time, but that didn’t matter, not really. Bucky held him anyway, held him close and hard, not minding that his arms were probably bruising Steve a little from the vice-like grip. He just buried his face in Steve’s hair, shorter now than it was then but still smelling like Steve Rogers, a scent belonging only to him. Bucky took some comfort in that, closed his eyes, and with a slow breath, continued.

"I told you, Steve... I told you you’d have’ta put me down someday," Bucky murmured quietly then, eyes closed tightly as he whispered against Steve’s hair. "I told you there’d be a time where it’d be me or you, and I told you which call to make. I told you Steve, why didn’t you just— why don’t you ever— you never fucking _listen_ ,” he sobbed out softly, clenching his jaw. Steve isn’t conscious to answer him.

"I’m sorry, Stevie. I’m so, so sorry, I never wanted this, never. I never wanted to hurt you, I swear," Bucky sobbed, because he’s started now and can’t stop, can’t stem the flow of tears running down his cheeks, the rasping breaths that aren’t coming right. "I love you, Steve Rogers. I love every bit of you. I love you small and I love you big. I love you fighting and drawing and laughing and crying and sick and— and fucking hurt and whining like a baby," he said, another broken laugh escaping him. "Wish you were whining right now..." he mumbled then, pausing for a minute. "I always loved you, any way you’d let me. A friend, a brother, a soldier... any way, Steve. Anything you wanted, I woulda been that for you," he promised quietly.

Bucky let out a shuddering breath, holding him closer still, knowing it would be any minute now. “You know... I remember when we were kids, when you were so sick. You ‘member that? Probably not, you were asleep for a week or so from it... Well, they said you weren’t gonna make it, Stevie,” he murmured quietly, swallowing hard. “They told me that plenty ‘a times while we were growing up, but this time... this was different. There was just no hope left, Steve... and it was like... kinda like all the fight had gone out in you,” he told the other. “And I got in bed with you that last night, and I held you just... just like this.

"Now… now I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told you then, okay?" Bucky said weakly, offering the blond a bit of a smile, still buried in his hair as he started to rock Steve gently. "You’re strong, Steve Rogers. Just like your Ma was. You’ve always got so much spark in you, more than just moxy, somethin’ real special... You’re a fighter, I know that, everybody knows that. Hell Steve, you know it better than anybody... You know what it means, not givin’ up. You always stand back up, no matter how many times somebody knocks you down. I know that, I’ve watched you more times than I can remember, more than I can count.

"But Steve... Now, don’t get mad okay? This is what I told you then, and I’m tellin’ you again now. If... I want you to know that it’s okay. You’ve fought so hard for so long, Stevie... If you’re tired, if you wanna rest now, it’s okay. You can—"

The steady tone now replacing the beeping of the heart monitor cut Bucky off.

The brunette swallowed hard, holding Steve closer. So this was where it ended after all.

"You can go."


End file.
